


Moments Like This

by kaspbrak



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, The Losers' Club - Freeform, first attempt at writing stan, one shot drabble, stan's love for his friends is subtle but pure, stenbrough if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 12:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaspbrak/pseuds/kaspbrak
Summary: Stan reflects on the solace of his friends, knowing their time together as a group is short.





	Moments Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after their first individual encounters with It but pre-final confrontation. Just the Losers hanging out together and enjoying each others company + Stan’s internal dialogue.

 

Stanley was, as he told himself, a sensible boy. His father had often told him the same with a fond smile, gazing over his spectacles with the wise air most adults held, a sensible boy.

He didn’t often receive compliments as such, with a tendency to keep his head down and simply get on with everything, never the one to _~~be vulnerable~~_ put himself out there, so to speak. From this knowledge Stan had of himself and of his coveted ways, he would never have believed he could ever have met such perfect matches for him.

Friends who he believed- and rightfully so- would put their life on the line for him, just as he told himself he would do for them.

He gazes fondly round at the motley crew surrounding him, each slightly slouched and relaxed, expressions of delight and carefree youthfulness painted on their round, beaming, faces. They all seem to bask in one another’s presence, scabby knees almost touching in their tight circle. Tight- very tight- always tight enough to keep the rest of the world out.

Stan liked it best this way.

It reminded him, in an odd manner, of his hobbies.

He’d spend hours observing birds go about their business but here with his friends, he allowed himself to divert his gaze from the ever-present buzz of nature for once, instead studying the other, less hidden inhabitants of Derry, watching his grubby yet utterly endearing gang of friends rather than his feathered ones.

The longer he watched, the more he noticed their quirks.

His sharp eye picked up on the way Bill’s eyebrows would knit together for a fraction of a second when the topic switched to family however briefly, for instance, and the way both Mike and Ben’s eyes seemed to dart and scan their surroundings upon the mention of the dreaded Bowers Gang. Beverly’s actions in particular, similar to Bill, spoke untold tales of her home life, nibbling gently at her dirty fingernails if the topic of discussion wandered too close to her _~~abuse~~_ family tree.

It dawned on him that no matter how mismatched they looked or how differently they acted, they all shared similar insecurities, and the realisation of this comforted him in an unexplainable way. Like the bond of castaways knowing ultimately they would perish, yet finding solace in the knowledge they’d do so _together_.

The familiarity of his analogy frightened him, so he cast it from his mind, focusing once more on the _~~n~~_ ever smiling faces of the Losers’ Club.

Being there, surrounded by the others, felt like home. Stan had never before felt such a sense of belonging, such a need to be amongst others and for others to need to have him amongst them. The topic of discussion switches back and forth around him and he allows his thoughts to drift, oddly soothed by the tuned-out shrill bickering of Eddie and Richie.

A wide, beaming smile blossoms across his face as the others giggle at some joke Richie cracked, but Stanley doesn’t pay any mind- he finds himself smiling because of the undeniable warmth of the company he gladly shares.

It’s here, together, sat in their little circle, their little bubble, that he reminds himself they are completely protected, completely safe from the outside world and all its struggles _~~and monsters~~_.

In an almost delirious state, his mind is cast back to a time not so long ago, when he and his father had bird-watched for hours, sat patiently and quietly, choosing to silently enjoy each other’s company rather than idly chat.

His father had broken the tranquil mood and turned to him with a look he did not recognise.

It was somewhere between sadness and fondness, he had concluded, shifting as large but comforting hands came to rest on his not-quite-broad-yet shoulders, and those wise eyes had peered over tarnished golden frames at him.

“Moments like this matter,” His father had told him, accompanied by that _~~haunting~~_ cryptic look once more. “Always make the most of them.”

It’s only now that Stan realises what that had meant, and why his father had looked as he had. He realises he never wants to grow up. Never wants to leave that safe, blissfully ignorant bubble of childhood friendship.

Now, it’s the small moments like this that count to him, the ones he’ll hold near and dear to his heart when he’s old and grey and thinks back- probably sunk low in some chair, peering over glasses like his father had done and longing for the good old days.

Deep down Stanley knows that as these happy memories will flood back, so will _**those**_ **_others_** , like a black, ever seeking sludge seeping through the faint cracks in his happy memories, seeking to engulf, seeking to ruin what he had, and he hopes- _no,_ _prays-_ that it won’t be so.

He doesn’t notice the others beginning to disperse beside him, brushing stray grass and dirt from their clothes.

He’s quickly brought out of his daze by a dirt-sullied hand extending into his line of sight, and his eyes trail up the wrist, past the face of the battered watch and dirty Band-Aids to the owner of the hand.

The feeling of dread melts away to reassuring warmth, as if the memories were never there to begin with.

He grasps it firmly, lips once again spreading up into a broad smile as Bill yanks him to his feet. The others had since left, their previous spots vacant in Stan’s peripheral vision. An empty feeling accompanied their absence- clinging to his ribs like tar- but it is swiftly pushed aside by the warm and very much real feeling of Bill’s hand gripping his.

 

“ _S-See you around?_ ” Bill mirrors the smile with his own lopsided grin, lifting the handlebars of Silver with an air of confidence.

 

There’s a fleeting moment of mutual respect between the two as their eyes meet that Stan mentally grasps onto for as long as he can.

The red hue of the Derry sky at sunset stains Bill’s pale skin the dusty burnt orange of ~~_faded blood stains_~~ desert sand- it reminds him of a robin’s breast- and he finds he’s never dreaded a goodbye so much before, even though he knows he’ll meet Bill again tomorrow, as usual.

He’d never been fond of goodbyes, no matter how brief. The finality of them never really set in until it was too late.

Goodbyes meant he’d be alone.

 

“ _See you around._ ” Stan confirms, and reaches for his own bike as Bill deftly mounts Silver and pedals off, huge cracked wheels wobbling to and fro as the boy waves leisurely over his shoulder. 

 

He smiles once more to himself, and attempts to shake off the omnipresent feeling of eyes boring holes into his spine, righting the handlebars of his immaculate bike with a soft sigh.

He’d see Bill around, he’d see all of them around. Though, lingering behind this thought lay the looming dark cloud of knowledge that when this all ended, **_if_** it ever ended, the essence of their group, the almost preternatural bond keeping them so close through thick and thin would never really be the same again.

 

Until then, he thought, Stan would do his damned best to keep things the way they should be. For the Losers.


End file.
